


Wizard Under The Troll Bridge

by Abby_Ebon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hellboy (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hellboy 1&2 x Harry Potter. In a New York subway – that was when Harry knew something was very wrong. When a demon died, and then came back – twice. SLASH. Nuada x Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Running On Train Tracks

**Author's Note:**

> …in which Abby wonders at her sanity in letting this sort of story loose upon the masses; Abby would thusly like to deeply apologize for bleeding out her insanity into your brain. She would also like to snicker while rubbing her hands together in a villainous manner. Unfortunately, these things can only be done one-at-a-time, so it's the villainous hand-rubbing and snickering, forgoing the "oppsie" for another day.
> 
> It livesssss!
> 
> Beta(s):
> 
> wolf-shinigami, (as of 10/19/09) who has done a fantastic job of fixing up some misspellings and sentences.
> 
> artscribler, (as of 10/26/09) who may or may not have lost a little bit of sanity converting ' - ' to ' , '. For her sake I'll try not to "do that!" so very much...

Harry crouched over the train tracks. A burning husk of embers falling into dust lay out before him. It used to be a body. He hadn't killed it. He had watched it die. It _used_ to be Sammael. Harry frowned as he rubbed the stubble along his jaw with his rough fingers. If this were _anything_ else but the demon hellhound of rebirth, called Sammael, Harry would have walked away.

He had not been on his way because it was not _often_ an immortal demon was reduced to something akin to dust. Only another demon – something more powerful - could so damage them.

Unless, of course, a wizard or witch might have seen fit to wonder into the subway….Having been drawn by the screams of muggles – he knew there had been _some_ notice taken. Yet there was no magic here. Only the scent of tears, of burning – of fear.

Harry had known that possibility to be dim; he would not have come to sit beside the body of Sammael if it was likely that he would be interrupted. The last thing he needed was the wizard media trying to find him.

He was dead to them.

He was a dead hero, it was a better ending title then what he was; insane (at least so much that his mentality and morals were buried so deep they would wonder if he was capable of such things) with a unstable current of magic –alike electricity - running amuck his body. He was as good as dead. He should be dead. He was not. Instead, he was what those of his likeness feared - a wandering power knowledgeable about their society in the midst of muggles.

Beneath the city, here in the subway, he was safe. Here, _he_ was the only one of his kind that dared venture long down here, into the enclosed subway, entombed beneath muggle buildings. If something shifted and faltered in the wrong way, it could come toppling down like dominos. It would not, for there were things beneath the city streets that even wizards and witches did not guess to find.

There were trolls.

Trolls were, unlike giants or dwarfs, a _people_ – a kind. There were certain characteristics and commonalities, but trolls but generally trolls simply had a motto – if you did not fit with _the others_ , you could and would be one of _theirs_. They were a mixed bunch of the "least desirable" among the immortal; or the "being" or "beast" breeds.

Here, beneath the dirt and concrete, were the beings that had found forests home. They had known their danger, and had known what the wizards and witches denied – magic could not protect them forever. So they had used other means. They had fled beneath the feet of man, in the abandoned cities that man built under the new. In the sewers and cut-off passageways, the things that mortals feared dwelled – bidding their time. They were immortal, and knew that one day nature would take back what man had crafted. Until then, they had only to wait.

Harry found himself smiling grimly into the dark. Two flames of green, gleaming off his eyes, came out of the husk. This, Harry knew, was the soul of Sammael. He watched it, his head tilted to the side. It did not fade. Then – before Harry could close his fingers in a fist to finish off even one Sammael – the soul split into twins and flung away from him, as if sensing the danger he represented.

Even as he scrambled after one – which bobbed and weaved tauntingly airborne - Harry knew it was useless. He tripped onto his belly, the breath choked out of him. As he got onto all fours, determined to stand, Harry heard the train coming. He looked upward – caught by surprise – the glare of white light blinding him. His heart lurched, cursing even as he got haltingly to his feet; Harry glared ahead at the train as he felt the stench of it. Then, a sound much like knuckles popping could be dimly heard. The blare of a train horn shrilled too late.

Harry was gone.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry stumbled, unable to catch his balance. When he stood, he rubbed his neck and rolling the muscles along his shoulders. As his neck popped, he enjoyed the dull pain, the disconnected feeling. He groaned slightly, opening eyes. This was his reality.

Harry had found that for many of the immortal magic-natured creatures he lived among, there were only _kinds_. There were no personal or true name that they would share (certainly not with a wizard), and rarely were there more than two of any immortal creature.

So Harry had learned early that this was true of most of his neighbors and had learned to give them names – most times they were flattered, others, bemused or annoyed, most though tolerated him, He was a _wizard_. He was worth keeping as long as he had magic that he would readily and willingly use to make their lives easier.

"Our wizard boy, alright you are?" Wizard that he was, he glanced bemused to the gleaming teeth that grinned at him. He felt a stirring of fear. His skin crawled and he wanted to shudder with the illness that tightened in his stomach – all of which he throttled. It was for that reason that this creature – this bogeyman, who took readily to the short-name Bogey – found Harry fascinating and followed him about readily enough.

Save when Harry ventured into the upper world, as he had that evening, if only to observe those that he could not walk among. Then he was left alone on his adventures.

"I'm alright. Just fine, by fact, Bogey…though there is something _strange_ going on up above. I saw Sammael. He was dead, for a time – and then came back – _twice_." There was a soft hiss in the dark, and Harry saw Bog'ma, Bogey's mate, who was far more protective of younglings, such as Harry (for all his twenty-odd years, to her those of four millennia were still young), than curious of what they did as Bogey was.

"You'll not go up above again; things are stirring, nasty lurking shadows that will eat little ones. We'll not have our hearts broke, little one, you are valued among us. Stay for a time, we'll see that no danger finds you among our throng." Bog'ma sang and hummed to Harry like a lullaby, her dark eyes glittered with something like worry.

Harry shrugged it off, careful not to look her in the eyes. He did not know if she could compel him to her will, even a short time would be risk enough. Though her voice was certainly something lulling, he did not want to risk being ensnared by sight as well as sound.

"I'll do my best, Bog'ma, as my curiosity and mortal heart allow." Harry remembered well that he had sickened and nearly died that first year among them because his neighbors could not guess at the cause of his illness. There really was something like homesickness that could kill. Only, for Harry, it had been not seeing people his own shape and features that had nearly been the end of him.

If not for Fragglewump, (which was _awkward_ , for Harry owed her – but she _ate_ cats – which was his Animagus form and thus he could not help but sympathize with) Harry knew he would likely have died. She was content that her actions showed her neighbors that she would not "accidently" kill Harry while he was a "pretty". Still, Harry kept well away from her if he dared venture about as a black-based calico in the upper world. He was equally wary of cat lovers who'd wonder over the once-in-a-life-time rarity of a _male_ tortoiseshell.

"Wicked world above, ensnaring your heart, tearing you from us – when our time comes, little one, we shall ruin and bleed the upper world for the pain it's brought to you." Harry who was bemused by her threats – which were in no way empty – merely nodded thoughtfully as if considering her implied offer… it was something of a not-quite joke. Harry knew that if Bog'ma ever fished the location of a wizard village or manor, she would gladly and viciously wreck havoc on his behalf.

"Still, Bog'ma – _what_ could kill the hellhound of rebirth? To do it _once_ is still nearly impossible, but what is new – the accelerated growth and it splitting in two – bothers me…" Harry let himself sit down, trusting that he would be – if not protected – warned of outright danger. It was not in the like of trolls and their neighbors to be subtle by nature. Harry breathed, and noticed for the first time that his side ached as his breath hitched. Had he hurt himself worse then he suspected with his blundering fall?

"You should let it take care of itself, it will burn itself out." Bog'ma told him with a certain smugness that gave her away. Harry looked sharply up at her; her hulking form was lanky and stretched, fitting well in the shadows that surrounded them.

" _What_ will burn itself out, Bog'ma?" Harry asked of her, frowning intently. Bog'ma would not have said anything if she knew something. All trolls coveted knowledge – to them, knowledge was guarded and protected as the gems, jewels and precious metals of the earth were to dwarves. Only trolls could not be stolen from. No wizard would be so foolish. It meant death.

Troll knowledge was _given_ – sometimes with a price, sometimes out of trust. Still, for all that he counted them as his neighbors, not even if he lived among them for the rest of his life would he know every secret – just as they would not know his.

"The spell..." Bog'ma muttered the word, somewhat guiltily – she flinched from his eyes. Bogey cackled with laughter that she had been caught in her word play. Trolls liked their puzzles and riddles as much as a Sphinx (which some wizards thought was where trolls learned their word-play from, while Harry knew both kinds shared such knowledge easily) though they used it day to day – it still was useful if you caught on to it.

" _Spell_ …you mean, one of my own….a _wizard_ did _this_?" Harry felt his heart clench painfully, rage boiling up in his blood. The fine hairs along his arms rose, standing on end as if an electric storm was brewing. It was a storm – but it was nothing as tame as electricity. It was magic, raw primal creation, which flickered within him – alive and enraged; like a live wire.

"If you can still call the host-vessel of Ogdru Jahad a wizard – that was what he was." Bog'ma admitted in her own roundabout way. Still, she tried (though she failed) to tell Harry that this spell was not his fault. He did not need to fix it. She cringed to think of what dangers their little wizard would bring down upon himself if the Ogdru Jahad lashed out at him.

"What is _his name_?" Harry demanded, his voice hushed. She knew looking into the gleaming green eyes that there was no turning back. Harry would see this "right" or die trying. Though no one would ask it of him – indeed, Bog'ma had told Harry in her own way to let it be. What would come, would come – and be dealt with at the Gate of the Troll Bridge if such danger could reach them.

"I do not remember mortal names." Bog'ma knew it a poor lie – but Harry could not catch her in it; rarely did they call him by his mortal name – always "little one" or "little wizard" or "youngling" or "green eyes". Harry had not kept his name a secret from them, though most of them had outright ignored the telling understanding in their own way that Harry did not realize he had showed them naked trust. When he realized it, he had thought it just as well. He knew now his neighbors were trustworthy and loyal to even the likes of him.

" _Bog'ma_ …." It was partly a growl, but Bog'ma sighed giving him sad eyes.

"Grigori Efimovich Rasputin. Do what you will with _that_ cursed name. He cannot be killed, little wizard, for when he dies, he lives once more – revived. The Ogdru Jahad are woe to lose a willing servant." Her words were bitter, but she knew Harry had to know – or he might die. So she offered willingly sacred knowledge – if it saved Harry, it was worth the giving.

" _Thank you,_ Bog'ma…" Harry smiled, mortal softness showing in his eyes, even as his power stormed within him. His black hair swirled and danced in the wind. His eyes were vivid gleaming green – as if they glowed from within with pulsing power. Bog'ma – who had seen all ages of human suffering from the very first who had fallen down from the trees – shuddered, with the claim of the little wizard who had found a place to belong among the throng of trolls. Still, he did not know he was so precious to them. Bog'ma clicked the talon-nails along her fingers together. It was enough to gain their attention.

"Do you go to war, little wizard?" Bog'ma glared at Bogey to keep his silence. They had to hear his answer uninterrupted. It was the only way to know his true intent. Harry knew he had to answer with truth.

Truth was valued as much as word-play (if not sometimes more), though there was a fear in certain truths.

"I will witness." Harry grudgingly admitted. He did not intend to rejoin his people – and that was what it would mean if he abandoned his neighbors with the thought of killing an upper world man who had not wronged him save with a spell.

"You will not interfere?" Mother-like, the spines along her back quivered with nervous tension.

"I will do only as I must." Harry granted, as was his right. He could tell an upper world man or woman how to kill Rasputin (if he found a way to do even this) or watch as that death was brought about. But he could not – unless he was threatened – act boldly against the upper world, least it brought the rage of his fellows upon him. In their fear of discovery, rashness was not unknown for all that they cared for his health.

"Then, as Bog'ma – I grant you, Harry Potter, passage and travel with our blessings – asks our aid, little wizard, and it shall be given. We mark you as our ambassador in this matter. You speak for the Troll; hold your tongue, or tell truth, as wisdom lets you. You will be eyes, ears, and your judgment will be ours." At the proclamation, Harry felt dizzy and lightheaded to the point where he wondered if he had been drugged.

As it settled, Harry realized what had been done. There was power in words and the words he had heard were power in themselves for they were so rarely proclaimed. It was a magic the trolls possessed. Something of its like could not be understood – not even by wizards – it could only be _accepted_. It was, in essence, a vow – an oath – and it could not be taken back, or broken – save with death. It could only be granted by trust and truth.

"W-why…?" Harry asked, half breathless – he felt tears fill his eyes, though he did not want to cry. Why did they trust him so? What had he ever done to deserve it? He was worthless as a wizard – he was someone whose power was a broken flickering thing – why could they not accept that he was useless? He would be helpless if a true wizard brought him to reckoning. Could they not understand?

Or was this an act of pity?

He knew it was not, still, the thought stung.

"You are _our_ wizard, little one, we will not lose you. This way, you can find us – always – and we may find you if we seek and you are willing to be found. This is our _gift_ , accept it – do not fear – you are worthy. This is an oath that would not allow utterance, if you were not worthy." Harry shook –with fear, with shock and hope and the kindness of _his_ people (by truth and trust, they had named him theirs) – and, not for the first time, let the warm weight of Bogey against the length of him lull him to a sort of calm.

"Peace, little wizard, for now – sleep, in the 'marrow… we will walk you to the Gate with a _proper_ envoy." There was a smug pride in Bogey. Harry blinked a few times, but his eyes could not stay open – they were heavy. He did not know if it was the oath or if sleepless night had finally caught up with him, but he did sleep – dreamlessly.

It was a small relief.


	2. There Are Worse Habits

_He did not know if it was the oath or if sleepless night had finally caught up with him, but he did sleep – dreamlessly._

_It was a small relief._

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

His memories were bad enough.

A diary – his life blood was on its cover. He was dying. Still, he sensed the familiarity of it. The yearning for a companion who would accept him; still, it had frightened him, the possibility. Now he felt something like the sting of betrayal. It was not his own. Yet it came from within him. It came from the diary.

He felt then, as if he was a stranger in his own body. Or that a stranger was in his body.

_Tom?_

It was an impossible thought, yet his eyes half closed, with his blood seeping out of him, it was not so unreasonable.

_*Yes…?*_

It had not been his thought. Ginny was still laid out on the floor. No one else could have said anything.

_How…?_

_*I am Tom Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort. When we met – the first time, when you were a baby – I...I think I really died. Yet, a fragment of my soul, my power, survived…in you._ *

It was whisper soft – compelling, bemused – Harry felt himself smiling, even as his vision dimmed. He could not see the fang impaled in his shoulder, the blood welling up and out of the wound. It was a small relief.

_You are a bit of his soul too. You aren't real._

Harry didn't feel the burning of the poison anymore, or the pain of the wound. It was all vague, hazy – a dull ache as he drifted, feeling free. It was illusion. He knew he was dying.

_*I'm as real as you are now. You are dying, half gone. I can save you. I can tell you secrets. I can pull you back. Together…we will be whole. I do not want to die, Harry, do you?*_

It was a long silence, Harry felt himself drifting. He felt something in the dark look at him. Then he made the mistake, looking back.

_No. I do not want to die. Please…do not let me die, Tom._

He felt the wicked glee that was not his own. Knowledge seeped into him, like his blood was pouring out. It seemed as if it would be a trade. He felt magic – power – that was not his own pooling with his – mixing, merging, becoming something that was not him – but it was not Tom either.

Tom was gone – but his knowledge, his power he had left behind. His soul merging with Harry. He realized the horrible truth, as he heard a wailing cry that made him flinch.

He _was_ Tom. He _was_ Harry. He was both, he was neither.

He was broken.

Mad.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry knew (he knew a lot of things now, but this – like the rest of it – was because of Tom, who he could not think of as _Voldemort_ – least he decide to end his life with the knowledge and power of the most feared Dark Lord. How long did he have until he became the likeness of the murderer of his parents?) no living being was _supposed_ to support the soul of another – or their magic, at least, not for very long.

Harry would die. Or live forever. Tom was never very sure of that. Harry (and Tom) did know _now_ how the soul of Tom Riddle had fractured into the diary – _and_ into him. He was a living Horcrux; which was _supposed_ to be impossible. Yet, obviously, was not. Tom was also _fairly_ certain that Harry had basilisk venom in his blood – it was stabilized only by the raw flex and flow of his duel magic.

Tom was fascinated with him.

Harry had nightmares of Severus somehow finding all this out and deciding to dissect him. Tom had been more than a little amused. Then, to the courtesy of Voldemort, Harry had a vision. It was vague, and violent, and painful. Tom had recognized what was happening; another Horcrux.

It was a possibility that neither of them had considered; how _much_ had Voldemort fractured (or shattered…?) his original soul? Someone sane might do it only twice – only Voldemort had proved he was not exactly "sane." Tom at first had thought that he was making it out to be worse than it was, until he had Harry's memories and had seen the vision for himself.

Tom had likened it to a diamond – lovely as something pulled up naturally from the earth, yet someone who laid hands on it saw only what perfections it could be, not as they were. So, tragically, they cut off what made the diamond unique, perfections and imperfections all. Harry had been a bit amused that Tom had compared himself willingly to something as feminine as a diamond. Still, Tom was admitting without saying he had made a mistake – it was worth remembering.

Still the question haunted Harry, always lingering in the back of his mind. Tom had admitted to it being possible; but while he did, he never said what to look for to find other Horcrux. He kept his silence until the vision. Someone else had died, and another fragment of soul had a living vessel. Nagini.

Harry had a place to look; Riddle manor. Tom knew where it was. Harry had insisted they go.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

 _*This is a very foolish thing to do_.* Tom had whispered to him, as Harry sat in the back of a taxi. He ignored, not for the first time, the open ended offer of a chance to turn back with Tom not thinking any less of him. This wasn't about Tom. Harry knew he was _dying_ (or, worse – that he would live forever) that did not give him much time to cripple Voldemort.

 _*Why do I bother, silly Gryffindor, you'll kill us both, do you not see that_?* Tom snarled and snarked, but Harry remained unresponsive. In a strange way, Tom was his friend – admittedly a back-stabbing one who had too much of an ego, and just enough knowledge to be brilliant yet flawed by those who had hurt him. Tom was like Harry – a child – yet Tom wanted revenge. Harry only wanted this ended.

Tom tried guilt next, knowing that Harry thought of him as a friend.

 _*Do you want to kill me – to kill yourself, you coward? Is that it? It is, isn't it_!?*

Harry still did not answer or respond very much. Tom was silent – Harry thought he _might_ have given up. He should have known better, still, Tom surprised him when he spoke up next.

 _*Ask him to pull over_.*

Harry blinked in surprise, glancing at the road they were on – it was dirt, and the surrounding – which were mostly nothing impressive. Still, there was something in Tom's tone that told Harry that he would be a fool to ignore it. This place was strangely – disconnectedly – familiar.

 _Why…_?

Harry did not know if he was asking this of Tom or asking this of the feeling. Still, it was Tom that answered.

_*If we_ _–_ _as you so determine_ _–_ _are going to be killed_ _,_ _I'd rather like you to know my ancestry…my mother lived around here, please Harry.*_

"Pull over. I just want a look around here. I'll be back in a bit." Harry finally spoke up, the driver stopped, more than willing to indulge the boy who was giving him gold coins for a trip across the country.

Harry got out, and let Tom lead (it was uncomfortably easy). They ended up standing in front of something that was a lot like a shack. Harry went in, and found the source of the familiarity. A Horcrux. He knelt on the dusty floorboards, and felt the pull – even though the spells that should have hidden it.

 _*My first, I was so proud of it – I thought…I thought I might have kept it with me. I guess not. I suppose that is foolish, I was – am – young. I should have known better_.* Tom sounded betrayed, hurt – but Harry could not think of what to say to make it better for him.

 _*Well, better to get it over with – I'll take the spells off. Don't touch the ring, put some of your blood on it – I'll call it to me, like that last time with the diary, it should work – don't you think_?* Tom was already distracted and thinking and planning and plotting, Harry felt as if he was lost in the white noise. He let Tom work, thinking of how if they continued on like this. Tom would gain his soul bit by bit. He wondered what would happen to him.

Soon enough, Harry blinked. In his hands was a golden box, and in that, a gold band of a ring with a black stone in its center. Carved in it was an odd symbol made up of a triangle with a circle in its center and a line running down it splitting both in equal parts. Harry touched it, and hissed as it cut at him, his blood touched it – and something very strange happened.

He closed his eyes and felt Tom "grow" he became less faint – less like an echo – he was a presence, an essence that Harry was wary of.

 _Tom_ …?

Harry wondered if Tom was still _Tom_ – when would be the point that Tom would be Voldemort?

 _*It…it's alright Harry. Let's go. We'll see what we can do about Nagini_ , _just like you wanted to…alright?_ * There was a wavering in Tom – a sadness – but Harry felt now that Tom was in agreement with him. Harry didn't look back as he got back in the taxi. Tom didn't ask him to stop again.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

" _Poisoned…my master, my friend….he has poisoned my soul – tainted me_!" It was a cry – a plea. Harry, from his hiding place under the kitchen sink, was shaken. It was Nagini _._ Tom seemed to press his lips together and close his eyes, his pain echoed Nagini's. Harry felt it, it could not be faked. It was regret – sickened pain of a soul.

 _*I am a monster. I think…I think you should kill me. Him._ * It was the first time Tom had ever told him such a thing. Harry swallowed, knowing that he could not afford to be distracted. He could not comfort Tom and be still at the same time. It ached within him, that knowledge – that certainly. He wanted to help Tom – to be his friend. He thought – perhaps foolishly – that if he got all the bits of soul together within himself, Tom would be whole – and be imprisoned.

"Ah, little serpent – I and the others warned you that wizards and their like aren't to be trusted. Yet you would not hear. Now your serpent whisperer has shown his true side; what would you have me do? I cannot cure you – I cannot save you…I cannot even kill you. I may take revenge for you, if you would have me do so….?" Harry _knew_ with those words – spoken like echoing bones – that the speaker was no more human looking then Nagini, perhaps less so. Harry felt fear clench at his gut, biting along his spine. He was frozen. Helpless.

" _He was my friend; I would not have you kill him, take me back among our kind, Bogey_." There was the sound of scales against tile floor, and something scrapped like cement. Harry smelt sea weed and mold.

"Hush, Nagini _._ A mortal is near…" Mused the rattling voice, as if amused.

" _My friend_ …?" Nagini asked of him, painfully hopeful. Harry cringed and felt Tom shudder. It was like he was crying without tears.

"No, but a wizard all the same…." Bogey whoever – or whatever – he was seemed to be able to smell Harry as easily as Harry smelt him. Harry wondered what he smelled like. Then he heard movement and wondered if the cleaning products he hid beside would be enough to hide him.

" _Where….does he mean my friend harm_?" Harry felt the tug from Tom. Even so betrayed, Nagini was still loyal to him. Harry resisted the impulse to show himself – he was not a fool. He knew what Nagini could do to him – he had no idea what Bogey might do.

"No, he smells strange – of fear, of riled dual power – yet still the stench of your friend, yes…but why does he hide..? I think I may ask!" There was a wicked delight in Bogey, even as he – too quick for Harry to move away or think to reach of his wand and say a spell – banged the cupboard doors open and reached inside, gripping him about the collar of his shirt like a cub.

"Ah, a spy, _hello_ little wizard – you are not supposed to be here, I do not think….?" Harry tried to work his tongue, yet words and thoughts came slowly. He stood face to face to something he could not name or had ever seen the likes of. Sharp teeth glinted in the dull light, a wicked smile and silver eyes glittered with delight. Bogey, he realized dully past his fright and gasping breath – liked that he was frightened of him, delighted in it.

"What…what are you?" Harry asked as he struggled to free his tongue. He would not be a slave to his fear. Interest and amusement snuck into the silver eyes, a long tongue licked over teeth that Harry could easily see shredding him into bits.

"Bogey, am I." Harry knew that Bogey was avoiding his real question; just as Bogey knew that Harry had not been asking for a name. This creature was clever – so much as it looked like a bully from a nightmare, it was _smart_ \- chillingly so.

 _*A troll_.*

Tom told him numb, matter-of-factly. Harry knew Tom was as startled as he was. Harry thought he might have reacted the same, if Hedwig revealed to him a hidden city in the clouds.

"Why are you two…?" Bogey mused, looking him in the eyes. Harry realized then, vaguely, that his feet _were not_ touching the ground. It did not even brush his toes. There was the soft whisper sound of scales over concrete and Nagini slithered onto Bogey's shoulder.

" _Two…he is one, Bogey, do you not see_ …?" Her tongue flicked out, tasting Harry. It flicked against Harry's ear. Harry felt his fear stir and noticed that Bogey inhaled – as if scenting a fine wine. Annoyed with the realization that something was enjoying his fear, Harry battled it. Bogey gave him something like an amused look as if he expected Harry should have figured what he was doing sooner.

"He has two souls, Nagini – one is _like_ that which taints you, the other…well, we will see if he lives or dies." Bogey opened his mouth wider. Past the gleaming teeth, Harry saw something horrifying – it was darkness. There was a wet sound within his head, and while he knew Tom was there, it was if he was being pulled away; no, not taken… torn away. Harry pulled back.

Bogey was somehow _taking_ Tom. Harry could not stop him. He talked then – babbled, anything to give him just a few more minutes of time. He _could not_ loose Tom.

"Wait – wait, I can help – I can save you Nagini – _I can take the tainted soul out of you_." In his rush, Harry did not know that he had spoken in the snake tongue until the pulling stopped. Bogey had shut his mouth tightly, as if he had been about to eat a cookie snuck from his mothers secret stash; only he was about to be caught in doing so. Harry shook with relief, Tom had settled back into his place – thought he was silent, withdrawn.

"And do what with it, little wizard…?" Bogey – clearly annoyed now – asked this at a hiss.

"It can taint me." Harry spoke truly. He felt Tom stir with a protest, but he saw Bogey glance to Nagini, then to him. Something new was in those strange silver eyes – respect. Harry only had to prove he could do what he claimed, and he felt he might earn it. He was determined to do so.

Knowing that neither Bogey nor Nagini would stop him, Harry bit at the scab on his thumb. His blood seeped reluctantly out; it was enough. Harry felt as if he was in a long tunnel, rushing to the end – the feeling faded when he felt like he had been struck at the back of his head – no… _within_ his head.

Tom had tried to stop him – of that much he was dizzily aware – and then feeling sick to his gut, he felt himself fade to unconsciousness. Tom had failed.


	3. If The Trap Is Set

Indignity sprawled across a comfortable lap, Harry – even waking slowly (which was a rare thing) – was aware he was being _petted_. Elegant fingers smoothed over his ruffled fur, scratching soothingly at his ears. One of his ears twitched. He was content, though he did not remember changing into a cat – such things, at times, simply _happened_ to him. He had gotten used to not questioning the how and whys after the fact. He was only grateful he was not purring… _yet_.

"Do you think that our little wizard _dreams_ while he cat-sleeps?" It was Fragglewump – her voice childlike and curious – who asked this of whomever Bog'ma and Bogey had entrusted his care to. Harry fought not to give himself away by tensing. He was a cat. She was Fragglewump. It was in her nature to snack on the likes of him. It was in _his_ nature to disagree with her.

"If he does, they are better dreams then he usually has." It was soothing to him, this voice. If Harry had not been stirred to waking, he would have been lulled back to sleep. Harry let his tail twitch with bemusement; it would not give him away, as Harry was well known for moving and talking and screaming in his sleep. He _knew_ this voice – these hands.

He would know them, even if he was half-dead. Watching the unaware Fragglewump with half shut eyes, knowing and trusting that he would be safe, he let his mind drift. He remembered well, waking the first time under the Troll Bridge. Even so, Nagini had not left his side. He had woken to her wrapped about him protectively, even as Bogey argued with his neighbors about what to do with him.

Some had suggested eating him.

Most had suggested killing in some way.

A few had suggested dismemberment.

None of them had been particularly _pleased_ that a wizard child was among them. Harry had asked Nagini where he was – and then…they had understood. Harry spoke the serpent language. Harry was not a wizard; with his dual-soul, basilisk venom blood, and the magic that flickered and spiked without a pattern or solid nature, to them his nature was clear – he was troll. Bogey had been the first to see that, though – luckily – not the last.

Still, even with his nature revealed – he was not trusted. He was not a neighbor to them; not yet.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

" _Nagini, are there more tainted souls_?" There was no word for Horcrux in the serpent tongue, but Harry made do. Nagini reared up beside him, face to face with him. She stared for a while as if measuring her words. She did answer.

" _Three, little wizard, linger still in this world._ " He let go the breath he had been holding.

" _Where are they_?" Nagini curled closer to him, as if to prevent him from leaving her side. For now, Harry was content to listen to her, yet he knew his self appointed task would not allow him long to linger.

" _Beyond even your reach, little wizard_ _._ _One_ _, the cup of Helga Hufflepuff, lays in a vault belonging to the witch Bellatrix Lestrange, beneath the wizard bank – Gringotts. Another, the tarnished diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, can only be reached when you seek a room in which to hide a thing within Hogwarts. The third and last, the locket of Salazar Slytherin was lost – even to my once friend_." Harry felt something like despair seep into him. Opposing it was Tom, his giddy relief was an almost physical thing. It did nothing to cheer Harry – then again – it was not meant to.

 _Stop it._ Harry asked Tom, even as he looked away from Nagini.

 _*Why should I? You can not now destroy yourself in some misguided attempt to make me whole_.* There was a sneering curiosity in his tone, it had not escaped Harry that Tom had gained with his definition a sense of personality that did not waver with what Harry wanted and did not want. There was morality now – and ethics – that Harry could not quite grasp. It was as if as much as Tom was changing, Harry was changing as well. It frightened him, sometimes – that thought – but Harry knew it was right, to give Tom this second chance.

 _I'll find a way, you watch me_. Something like a sigh ruffled though his thoughts.

 _*Did you ever stop and think, Harry, that maybe I don't_ want _to be whole? That maybe, like this, I'm a bit_ happier _with you living? It may be the only thing He has done right, hiding the bits of that…my sodden soul_. _Good riddance to it_.* There was bitterness in Tom, and intensity to have his way – and something like determined self-destruction. Harry knew (because of what Tom knew) that all Tom had to do was wait – then he'd fade, bit by bit, into Harry. He wouldn't have a voice or thoughts, or be anything but more of the strange flux of raw magic that kept Harry alive.

Tom _wanted_ that.

Harry did not. As it didn't really change anything, even if Tom faded, Harry would still die. The only difference was – in the end – Tom would not know if he had it his way.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

" _Why are they arguing_?" Harry asked the hovering Nagini. Since he had saved her life, she seemed determined to return the favor – if only in by playing the part of babysitting him. Harry felt as if he was a bird with clipped wings. For all that he could move freely and willful about in the Market and other places beneath Troll Bridge, he was simply not trusted to the secret of the surface.

"They argue for knowledge, for secrets –it is our trade, what we value most." It was Bogey that answered him.

Harry pressed his lips together in thought, a riddle tugged at his memory.

"...Enter, stranger, but take heed **  
**Of what awaits the sin of greed, **  
**For those who take, but do not earn, **  
**Must pay most dearly in their turn. **  
**So if you seek beneath our floors **  
**A treasure that was never yours, **  
**Thief, you have been warned, beware **  
**Of finding more than treasure there...."

Slowly, Harry smiled. He felt the faint stirring of protest from Tom – but it was too late.

"Bogey, what would the trolls give to have access to the location of Gringotts?" It was asked innocently enough, but Bogey must have sensed something in his tone for when he looked down at Harry, there was a great gapping grin that stretched over his lips.

"A great many things, little wizard, would we give…." That was just the sort of answer that Harry had been looking for. Still, it could be a trick if he did not choose his words with care. Bogey merely watched him patiently, yet there was an eager look to him, as if Harry was finally learning to do things right, or at least the proper way – the _troll_ way.

To sooth himself, so he did not rush his thoughts or words, he stroked the scales along the ridge of Nagini's back, only then, with Nagini watching Bogey carefully – as if for a trick – did he speak.

"I only want one thing, really, in trade - the cup of Helga Hufflepuff, it lies in a vault belonging to the witch Bellatrix Lestrange… will you fetch it for me if I tell you where to find Gringotts?" Bogey frowned and fidgeted. Harry would not know until later that wizards often betrayed trolls with trickery. Bogey would be taking gamble by trusting him. It was thought to be in wizard nature, such betrayal.

"You have my word, lad." Harry had been waiting for those words, for a troll kept his word – even if everything else was lost to him. So without fear, Harry told.

He did not know that between the goblins and the trolls was a rivalry that was riff with grief and greed. He did not know that by being a wizard and by giving up the location of the prized wizard bank, knowledge horded by goblins, he was – in the eyes of his neighbors – throwing away the last ties to the world above that had made him a wizard.

To them, now, he was truly troll and to be trusted among them. He was given the cup, as a part of that trust, the day they raided Gringotts.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry had not thought, until he met Bog'ma, and the half-blind white dragon, Itë, in the aftermath of the raid, that Gringotts might also be a prison. He was sickened and wondered at what other grim secretes the goblins (or wizards…?) might have hidden. Bog'ma came to him the day of the raid to deliver with Bogey the cup – his "prize" – and to see for herself the boy wizard that had told her people (who had long thought she, one of the immortal, had – impossibly – died or "faded" from this world) where Gringotts was.

"Here it is, though what you want it for, the likes of we can not guess," Bogey told him in undertone, glancing – distracted – to Bog'ma every once in while.

"It is like with Nagini, only an object – not a living thing – still, it is tainted with a soul," Harry explained as he took the cup that once belonged to a Founder of his beloved school. He felt a similar thrill from Tom.

"What will you do with it, this bit of imprisoned soul?" Bog'ma asked her eyes glinting and suspicious of him. Tom was filled with a sudden dislike of her. Harry shook it off, feeling a bit of pity. Bog'ma had every reason to be wary. She knew what it was like to be trapped.

Harry wondered if Tom felt, secretly, the same stifling anger toward Harry for being as imprisoned as he was by flesh and blood and bone. Harry felt then sick. Hollow. Disgusted. He was a living tomb. A prison for someone he considered a friend.

He was _worse_ then the wizards and goblins he was so horrified by.

 _*Your being silly, Harry – that isn't true. Stop thinking such thoughts. What we have, its symbiotic – or parasitical – to live, we both need each other. You are no more just my prison then I am merely your anchor to this life. We are more then that._ * Tom told him, in soft tones – almost sympathetic, as if Harry would by frightened by anything less then such kindness. Sometimes, it was as if Tom thought Harry was delicate – something breakable – someone to be protected.

"I'll take it into me, where the rest of the soul is – well, all but two more fragments," Harry told Bogey, his tone matter of fact. There was no hiding it, as Bogey had seen what he could do. He had "cured" Nagini. It was none of Bogey's business if Harry intended to see his self appointed task fulfilled.

"You are duel-soul," Bog'ma stated, frowning at him after she had inhaled as if scenting the other soul within him.

"Yes," Harry nodded, glancing to Bogey for a hint to where she was leading with her words.

"You were not _born_ as such," Bog'ma told him, almost sadly – sympathetic. It was as if she thought her words would change things. Harry frowned, not sure what it was she meant.

"I might as well have been." Harry told her, remembering what Tom had said. There had always been a bit of Tom in him. It was what had made their first connection possible. Bog'ma glanced to Bogey, as if to make it plain what she thought of Harry's reasoning. She thought he was a fool. Bogey nervously stepped forward, attempting to explain Bog'ma and her warning in a way that Harry would understand.

"That is not what she means, little wizard. She is warning you. Those like you – well, not _exactly_ like you, but those that have sought power by eating the souls of others as you seem to do – they know that you can't take too much into you too quickly or you loose yourself, or change. Or maybe, die, or maybe, worse." Harry nodded slowly, thoughtfully as his mind drifted elsewhere; his fingers bushed the chill metal of the cup. He thought he felt the echo of Tom's soul, tugging him in two different ways. He could not concentrate on the present and on what he felt. Tom was suddenly there – "in front" of his mind – keeping Harry from feeling the soul that tugged insistently at him – wanting to be one with the greater whole of Tom that was within Harry.

"I know," Harry told the two of them, looking Bog'ma in the eyes. They seemed to flinch. Harry wondered at that – an immortal being would cringe from the choice he had? It seemed almost something he had not seen, but had imagined.

"Then why do you risk it, green eyes?" There was a fondness in Bog'ma then. It was something Harry could not deny. He was not imagining it.

"He…he is as close to a friend as I have ever had. He, at least, has always been truthful to me. He has never lied, or pretended to be anyone to me but who he is." Harry felt as if he was confessing. He felt Tom listening, as easily as Bogey and Bog'ma did. Harry wondered what they thought, but did not dwell on it. He worried at what his clear mindedness was costing Tom. With a nod to each, he went into the den that Nagini had made theirs. He huddled in the darkness of his room, the bedding flung about. And waited.

Tom did not disappoint him.

 _*Thank you, Harry_.* It was whisper soft, there was affection there.

 _Don't mention it, please_ … Harry thought as he closed his eyes bringing his thumb to his lip. Just as he was about to bite down and let the blood flow, he heard something like a creak of a floorboard. It was his only warning – Harry was not alone.

"Harry Potter, sir! Dobby has found you! Dumbledore will be so happy to know you are well!" He closed his eyes, amused by the abrupt appearance of the House Elf. He was also relived. It was not a witch, or a wizard; he did not have to fear for the safety of his neighbors.

 _*What is THAT_ …?* Tom was startled, and annoyed. Harry found himself amused.

 _Dobby, he is a House Elf – he was bound to the Malfoy family, last I knew_ …He told Tom the name fondly, though it did nothing to ease the annoyance he felt from the other.

 _*I would_ never _have guessed_.* Harry would have told him not to be so sarcastic, but he remembered something Dobby had said before Tom had interrupted.

"Dobby! What are you doing here? What do you mean, Dumbledore…? Aren't you the Malfoy family House Elf?" Harry asked of him, truly curious. Harry knew that the little elf cared for him. He had tried to keep him from danger, even though "keeping from danger" had meant – often – being the _source_ of mischief.

"Dobby is not! Dobby was freed by the noble Dumbledore; Dobby is now Hogwarts House Elf!" Harry could barely make out the rush of words, but he understood the gist of it. He realized then, what had not dawned on him – he was being looked for. He tried to remember how much time had passed since he had gone looking for Riddle Manor – since he had been tucked underground within Troll Bridge.

He could not. It seemed to him as if time was slipping by, unnoticed.

"Dobby, you must _not tell_ Dumbledore where I am at. It is a secret. Please…will you keep it?" Dobby puffed his chest up his chin tilting. However much it bemused Harry to see the little House Elf so full of pride at keeping important secrets, he knew, as well, that Dobby would keep his word. He would not tell, not even if he was "punished".

"Dobby gives promise, Dobby not tells! But why is the noble Harry Potter sir…here?" Dobby looked about himself, fidgeting and nervous. Harry knew then that Dobby was not here by accident. He knew he was under Troll Bridge. It chilled Harry that wizards and witches did not even realize that House Elves could go so freely when it was their will. No other creature could go so unnoticed among his neighbors.

"I will tell you, _if_ you do a favor for me," Harry asked of Dobby, feeling guilt tug at him even as he remembered what Nagini had told him. That the tarnished diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, can only be reached when you seek a room in which to hide a thing within Hogwarts. If anyone could get it for him, it would be Dobby.

"Dobby will do it! Harry Potter has only to name the favor!" Giddily, the words had spilled out of Dobby. Harry was gentler; though he might well not have been – Dobby did not know that he what he sought was one of the two Horcrux that were left.

The next morning, it appeared on his pillow. With a smear of his blood on the surface of both, Harry did not hesitate to take the fragmented souls within him. He felt Tom's reluctance, but he did not try to stop him – not this time. Tom knew now that what he had done had nearly killed Harry.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Fingers itched along his spine, drawing him back to the here and now.

"He is very pretty, is he not? Such fine black fur, you'd never know of the white if you didn't see the stripe under his belly – odd, that the amber-orange is only in a few places, do you not agree it is like shadows under the old trees?" Harry would rather to have liked to think of it as an odd sort of camouflage, but as long as Fragglewump did not compare him to some sort of snack, Harry was not going to argue with her.

"Hush. He wakes." Opening his eyes, Harry saw that it was not only Fragglewump that was near. It _looked_ – from his place on the lap that had claimed him – that _every_ neighbor he had met in passing, or had dealings with since his arrival to Troll Bridge, had decided to show up. With a flick of his tail, he remembered Bog'ma and her words.

 _A proper envoy, indeed_ , Harry thought nervously his gaze flicking over the crowd _. I_ _t will be a wonder if the upper world does not know our secret by the end of the day_.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O


	4. Liquor Kills You Quicker

"You will be careful of him, will you not?" This was a voice that had stopped wars, bestowed blessings, and named babes. There was an undoubted presence of power that came with such a presence. Feminine and soft, it left no doubt that there was a dire warning – a threat hidden in all that this voice was gentle in tone. Faced with that sort of being, subtle threat or not, a wizard would be a fool to protest.

Harry was still a cat. These words were meant for another.

"O'…of c-course, Lady Nuala…" Dung stuttered out frantically with eyes that looked in any direction but in the face of whom Harry had settled on the shoulders of. He was well aware of his danger. A great bulk of trolls stirred and murmured among their neighbors behind the Lady Nuala, most spoke the troll tongue – of which Dung only knew a handful of words. Those words that he understood would not have comforted him.

A slender pale hand reached up to scratch at his ears, Harry grudgingly allowed a rough purr to mark his approval. He had wondered how Bog'ma and Bogey might go about convincing his neighbors that Harry, even as an envoy, should be allowed the freedom to leave the Market without the "proper" escort following at his heels.

It was grudgingly that they had previously allowed him to breech the surface to the underground rail stations, and some of the closer underground stores; and that twice-a-month trip was for his health. Even so, Harry knew that even in the underground of the city, he was watched over. It did not matter that Harry could not see those protectors, they were there.

This would be no different. Except, as envoy, old laws and ancient vows protested his entering a territory without a visible protector (this, supposedly, so that he would not be mistaken for less, or more, then what he was) of like-nature to those to the territory he was entering. To a troll, this meant Harry – already a wizard and of human shape – had to be accompanied visibly in the upper world with another wizard or witch of human shape. Trolls did not see a marked difference between non-magical and magical humans.

While his neighbors would find no qualm in kidnapping a witch or wizard and manipulating them into going though such a task, Harry had a secret to keep. He was thought dead among wizards and witches, and he wanted to keep it that way. Which left his neighbors in a disgruntled position of blackmail to a wizard; fortunately, they knew just the wizard-thief.

Dung was a young man raised by non-magical folk, Unfortunately, when Dung had seen though the disguises of trolls, he captured their interest. They had waited until Dung knew what he was and already taking little things, they had approached him. He was one of a handful of wizard-kind the trolls would deal willingly with. He had never seen the Market. Yet he knew Harry, because when he had sickened, Fragglewump had asked him of wizard sicknesses. Curious in his own right, Dung had found out about Harry when he went to the surface for the first time.

It had been from Dung that Harry had gained the last Horcrux.

"Stinks, smells of fear…." Fragglewump protested in a grumbling tone.

"Smell fine, fresh, of good stock." That wasn't _particularly_ comforting as Harry was fairly sure he had once seen a human finger among the "delicacies" on a plate of the bug-eyed troll (a sort of merfolk that took on the stooping shape of a frog) that had just spoken up in protest.

"Did any scent a lie on him?" Lady Nuala asked softly, paying no mind to the mumbling conversations that hushed as her question echoed in the dead-ended courtyard alley that led to the Gate. It gapped open, though it was not unguarded with the throng of trolls that stood between each side of the Gate. Some were curious of the outside world, some had been born to the Market, and knew no other world – still others detested the world beyond the Gate.

"Nay, Lady," Bogey finally spoke up, grudgingly. It was a truth, though not one well liked.

"I trust him," Harry spoke abruptly in Dung's defense. He had changed his shape with a cautious prod at his magic; it reacted with a violent and abrupt flare. Harry had never so swiftly went from a cat to a wizard.

His hand still rested on Lady Nuala's shoulder where he had flung himself off at a jump. She smiled at him; it was kind though there was certain sadness in her gaze. She looked then to Dung, Harry saw her sadness change to wary regard, and the kindness fade to a severity she showed only when she felt a situation was dire.

"Our green-eyes may trust you, if you betray _our_ wizard, you will never die but you will _suffer_ everlasting." Lady Nuala was the immortal daughter to King Balor, her threat was not an empty one. Nuala turned her attention from Dung as if he no longer mattered, and her gold eyes focused on Harry.

"You will take care." She made it into a statement; a fact. He did not argue, instead Harry nodded his head, not disagreeing. He noticed only then that his hand was still on her shoulder. She took his hand in hers, her fingers cold and soft, her lips on his skin were warmer then he thought they ought to be.

"Go then with our blessing." There were chuckles and screeching laughter, and soft mocking coos meant to tease, and leering grins from his neighbors. But Harry was close enough to see that Nuala meant no jest in her actions or words. He did not know what to do with the knowledge, or what to say. His tongue frozen, his body unmoving with his shock, Harry could only watched until Nuala moved out of his sight and though the Gate.

Words were spoken to him, or at him – of warning, of taking care – all of them echoed Nuala, though even together the sentiments and well wishes of his neighbors paled in comparison. He did not know what to think of it, so put it out of his mind. It would be dangerous – and foolish – to dwell on, however much Nuala might be fond of him, Balor was not.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"You know, you don't _have_ to come along with me. I'd be alright on my own," Harry had mused on how soon to tell this to the wizard-thief. Even after the Gate had shut behind them, he had stuck by Harry. His value was unquestionable. Harry would not soon forget the thief that had brought him the locket – the last Horcrux. Still, he managed to annoy Harry. He fidgeted and jumped at shadows. His name was Dung.

" _Yes_ , I do. Believe me, I would _love_ to be on my way – unfortunately, you have some very frightening friends – got me?" Harry reluctantly remembered Nuala, her threat no longer amused him, as he dreaded looking deeper into it, and finding something he would not know what to do with.

"Mind telling me where it is we're going?" Dung asked this in a hushed tone as they walked on the streets. He kept his voice low, though the only ones who could have heard him were the little's that ran amuck in masks and mocking costumes.

Harry had forgotten that he would walk the upper world on Halloween night. It was funny, in a twisted way. He had born in this month, now, knowing what he did now, he walked again on the surface. Despite the danger, or perhaps because of it, he had been lured up from the safety of the depths of the underground city that was even now waiting for his return beneath the sidewalk he sauntered across.

Harry looked upward to the night sky. His eyes had long ago been made sharp in the dark in which he dwelled, but even wizard sight could not see past the smoggy clouds. The stink of decaying leaves and the burnt smell of leaves itched at the back of his throat. It was strange to think that the underground was a cleaner place than the upper, but Harry only shook his head and tilted it as he stopped walking.

He had learnt a lesson long ago, he did not dare use magic and walk at the same time – he thumbed at the smallest cord of magic. It danced in his mind-eye, quaking readily at his touch. This time there would be no real-world aftermath. Dung would not see what he did. It was just as well, for he bit his tongue, crushing his hands to his ears. Sirens, and speech, and thoughts, that were not his own – or very nearby – washed over his mind like the oncoming tide. He saw the place, for it was burnt into his memory.

"Harry…Harry, are you _alright_?" Dung had a hand on his shoulder, and was looking about them nervously. It was as if he wanted them to be discovered. Harry shrugged his hand off and the lingering tang of sights, and smells, and words that were not his own. He knew where he was going now and strolled in the direction that felt the best match.

"A library…" Harry muttered reluctantly under his breath, aware that Dung needed an answer still. The wizard-thief had quicker steps then Harry, so it was no trouble to him to keep up with Harry. Still, almost carelessly, Dung tossed him worried looks and looked about to say something that Harry would sneer to hear. He kept his tongue, and Harry was glad, for among the troll to be insulted was to risk death. Harry would not kill Dung, but it was easy to read the wizard-thief's thoughts; weak.

"In New York? _Very_ helpful." Dung had heard him well enough, though he rolled his eyes upward, keeping pace with Harry's quick steps they turned an abrupt corner and paused in the wake of what they saw; a sprawling crowd of curious non-magical people with cameras, and a museum with the claim of Machen Library of Paranormal Artifacts. On red background, black bold words proclaimed "magic," if in a different spelling.

"Yes, it is," Harry allowed no hint of sarcasm in his tone, though the irony was clear to read across his features. With his tilted brow and slanting lips, one could almost have claimed the expression was a grin.

"Harry…" Dung was glancing between Harry and the crowd, rightfully nervous. Harry held up his forefinger and thumb. There was a snap and then the lights along the road went out, police radios filled with white noise, cameras went dark, and batteries ceased to work. Some people shouted or screamed then were silent; they were tense and unnerved.

Then, almost reassuringly tender, there were murmurs in their minds of a Halloween prank, and that reassured the crowd. None knew the thought did not come from their own minds. Harry thought it a fair trade, for their thoughts had pressed in on his own mind first.

"We will not be seen, come along if you insist it." Harry reached for his magic, but it leapt to meet his touch and unexpectedly he became a cat. Then with an expecting look to Dung, the cat disappeared with little noise but a rush of displaced air. Dung gave a put-upon sigh. Holding his nose to rub away his annoyance and possible forming headache, he followed.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

It did not surprise Harry that human bodies stank. Blood had been spilled over polished tiles. Those would be cleaned by morning. Still, the bodies were long gone, – eaten or carried off – yet the stench lingered. As a cat, he sat in an out-of-the-way corner, and watched with curious green eyes and slanted pupils as people milled about even after the bodies were long gone.

Two people held his attention. An old man – who smelt of coming death – and a … _being_ that he, even as a troll and wizard, had never seen the likes of. He wondered what his neighbors would think, or tell him. Harry studied the blue skinned one as he knelt by a sword, studied it in turn. Black eyes, wider than a human's though eerily like a shark-gaze, seemed to see things that were not here now, but had been. Harry felt a creeping sensation along his fur, as if a spider were creeping up along him unreachable. He brushed it aside, careless, watching as the blue-hued being jerked in reaction as if he had been struck.

Cat eyes narrowed, as web fingers twitched uneasily.

"Shit, Harry…?" It was a hushed voice, coming from a side-room that Harry sat near. It was just as well that Dung had opted for secrecy rather then appearing beside Harry. A cat might not be noticed or his appearance might be excused, but a man would not. Harry flicked his tail, trotting into the room – if only to reassure Dung.

It was then that he felt the creeping-spider presence bearing down on his mind, invading. His magic leaped to his defense, too late. The delayed reaction set the sensation into a tumbling tizzy that was a vision. He saw with blurred focus the security men die, then a woman with cold blue eyes and yellow-wheat hair, a lean man who dressed in black leather and held swords he was talented in – the curiosity being he wore gasmask and not even a hair was to be seen. Then the man Grigori Efimovich Rasputin, who should be dead – for he stank of death and darkness that was the Ogdru Jahad – arrived. Sand-that-was-not was spilled.

Sammael resurrected.

Harry crouched on his belly, trembling, and that was how Dung found him. With care, the wizard-thief lifted him, cradled him in arms that were solid and more real than the flashes of past-sight, to a chest that was warm and had a beating heart. There were no slithering tentacles of Ogdru Jahad reaching though his skin for Harry.

Harry relaxed only a little when he smelt the familiar spice-tang of the smothering underworld air. He was among his neighbors once more, he was safe, and there would be a hunt for Sammael to undo what had been done to him. Harry knew how, now that he had seen it done. There would be no second-guesses.

 


	5. Smoking In Sewers

"Shit, sure wish you'd tell me what the hell just happened to you," Dung spoke the words aloud, his voice high with nerves; it only echoed back at him in the sewers. Hearing it – his fear, his own insecurity – Dung could not help it when he took a shaky breath. That he asked, even though Harry was a cat and could not answer, told Harry that Dung trusted him more then he let on.

With as much dignity as Harry could muster – for he _forbid_ himself to squirm his discomfort at being helpless in the arms of another wizard – he cried out his command; _put me down, dolt_.

" _Merow_!" Harry was promptly obeyed, though the scratch of Dung's ragged nails at his ears might have been a bit underhanded. Dung jerked his hand away only when he seemed to realize what he was doing, so Harry let it go. It wasn't worth the effort of holding a grudge.

Still shaky from nerves, Harry stood from his crouch; the same hunched posture that carried over to his human form from when he was on his feet and hands as a cat. Harry didn't know why, and so long as his transformations continued to carry along smoothly, he didn't much care _why_. Rubbing grimy fingers on his jeans, he glanced to Dung who had looked away from him while he was in the midst of the transformation. His pale face was a little flushed. It could have been from the flicker of fire his lighter had spurted to life, or the cigarette that was already smoking at the end; but Harry didn't think so.

Dung raised the lighter, as if to offer, but Harry shook his head in a negative. The flame sputtered out with a click. It was just as well.

"I saw Sammael," Dung flinched a little at Harry's claim, though it was certainly not because he doubted it, only that he was looking more and more uneasy; it was as if he wished Harry hadn't told him, even though _he had_ asked, "or at least, how Grigori Efimovich Rasputin freed him. I know how to undo it." Dung's tensed shoulders eased, and even as Harry turned away from him, Dung watched him with a mix of wary regard and lazy confidence. Harry couldn't understand it.

"An' how is that?" Dung asked his voice not above a whisper, then taking a deep drag from his cigarette. Perhaps it did something to calm him. He certainly appeared steadier than he had been, Harry had seen it for himself – it had taken more then one click for the lighter to spurt out flame. It had to be something muggle.

"I will kill Grigori Efimovich Rasputin." It was stated so matter-of-fact, so reasonably, that Dung was nodding in agreement before his ears had quite caught up with his brain. When he did, he choked, quick fingers plunking the cigarette from his lips before it would fall.

Harry watched him, dark amusement glittering in his forest eyes. It was, perhaps, unfair to thrust Dung into the midst of this. Still, it hadn't been necessary for Harry to startle him so badly and that, well… that was only because he felt burdened down by Dung, "escort" or no.

"That so? Call it my own dim logic, but I don't see how _burying Rasputin_ is going to result in _Sammael_ joining him as ashes," Dung mumbled, sounding a bid disheartened. If he had hoped of making this out alive when he took the job, he now likely thought it was a lost cause. It heartened Harry though, that Dung had not thought to abandon him. Maybe _that_ was where the sympathy came from, for when Harry spoke next, it certainly came from _somewhere_.

"What do you know of Ogdru Jahad?" Dung jerked as if stung, his lip and nose curling in disgust. Dung paused as he brought his cigarette to his lips, breath coming out in a hiss. Smoke curled into an image and hung in the air between them; to the untrained eye it looked as if a flower had bloomed with seven pedals and they had twisted, becoming something frozen and crystallized. Harry nodded at the image, for it was accurate enough.

"Bog'ma spoke of Rasputin; he is their servant, it gives him something like immortality. For when he dies – and he _does_ die – he comes back, yet as you might guess this immortality comes with a cost. He is the vassal to the coming of Ogdru Jahad. They would loath to loose such a willing host," Harry grinned; there was nothing sane in it. Dung worried sometimes if Harry knew – or cared – just how far from human he had come. It was times like these that Dung didn't much care himself. If Harry got information like this so easily, maybe it was worth a bit of a trade.

"This is even more of a reason the likes of us ought to stay out of it, Harry," Dung licked at his lips, not afraid to admit he was more then a little nervous about where Harry might go with this. Ogdru Jahad was, for wizards and witches alike, the stuff of nightmares. Trifling with it was bad. Worse would be getting it upset. It slumbered, but it could – one day – awaken. The dawn of that day, it would truly be the end of the world, and whatever _was not dead_ would _wish_ it were.

"Still, such immortality gives Rasputin a certain amount of arrogance; he thinks he can never die. Take, for instance, his spell with Sammael. For every time the demon hound falls, it rises twice," Harry was suddenly very serious again. Dung saw plainly then now how much power that would take. It would surely kill any other wizard, and as it was, it was _killing_ Rasputin. There was no telling how many times Rasputin would die between when he set the spell and when they put a stop to this.

"Shit," Dung felt his throat go dry.

"We will work with the weaknesses we know it possesses. Ogdru Jahad is greedy, and though Grigori Efimovich Rasputin is now the only servant of the seven, it was not always so in the past. It isn't likely the habits of Ogdru Jahad have changed over the millennia; Ogdru Jahad still searches the minds and hearts of mortals for its flavor of corruption." Dung thought he knew where Harry was going with this line of reasoning – he didn't like it.

If, as Rasputin lay dying, Ogdru Jahad was occupied with collecting another servant, the spell between Rasputin and Sammael would break – and Sammael, at that point, could be _truly_ killed without being reborn. By the time Ogdru Jahad brought Rasputin back to life, it would be too late.

"We need bait," Dung told Harry, sneering slightly at the thought of anyone _willing_ to open their mind and power for Ogdru Jahad. Rasputin was a special kind of crazy, for not even the Dark Lord would ever have opened himself to such a connection.

"Yes." It was such a simple answer, so very _carefully_ strait forward. It left a lot of room for a lot of tears; some could be mended in time and some would become gapping, ragged holes till the very bitter end.

"I don't like this idea." Though some might have hesitated to tell Harry so bluntly, Dung had never hesitated to admit his was a coward. A coward he was, yes, but a _loyal coward_. Just because he didn't like facing up to what was probably going to be how he died, didn't mean he would take back his word – or walk away. It wasn't in him to leave Harry more alone than he already was.

Harry wasn't asking him to _be_ bait, he was asking – though in a round about way – to see to it that this was finished, even if worse came to worse; even if Ogdru Jahad swallowed Harry up and spat him out a servant. Dung had never wanted something so bad – wizard-thief that he was – as Harry wanted Sammael dead.

"Nor do I," Harry looked in the distance, frowning – his nostrils flared as he inhaled looking for all the world as if he were scenting the air. Dung felt bile rise in the back of his throat at the very thought and put the bitter cigarette back in his mouth. It was doing what it was supposed to – taking his mind off the fact he stood in a sewer, deadening his sense of smell so he didn't smell much past dirty water and mold.

There were things _growing_ down here that he hadn't thought could. And things he didn't think could have grown anywhere else.

"Do you smell that?" Harry asked, clearly distracted – he'd stopped smelling the air – now he was listening. Dung didn't bother to take a whiff. It was bad enough watching.

" _Uhg_ , yuck, no thanks – what is it?" Dung didn't bother to hide the curiosity he felt. Something about the way Harry was standing – defensive, tensed shoulders, knees bent as if about to take off running or lunge into the dark – clued him in. Harry looked dangerous, and he wasn't hiding it.

 _That_ was _always_ bad news.

"Sammael is in these sewers," It was hissed out like a cat would, furious and territorial. Dung knew he should have been _expecting_ it when Harry took off running. But he hadn't, so he cursed, bitterly stomped on his cigarette (even he had no desire to see what a fire looked like down here) and took off after him.

A few sharp turns was all it took for Dung to realize he was lost – and very much alone.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry hated swimming in sewer water. It was one thing to live beneath a city surrounded by underground tunnels; quite another to venture into a submerged tunnel that had – likely – collapsed. Harry grit his teeth even as he took from his clothing a bit of plastic wrap; it was what was within the plastic covering that he cared not to linger on.

When the trolls had found he needed to go to the surface twice every two months, for his own health and sanity, they had not let him wander out without means to get back through the submerged tunnels that he loathed.

It was not the darkness, or the smell – or the trash – it was the simple fact that Harry had never learned to properly swim. There was only one way to go about in the tunnels, and that was why he was taking precious time to unwrap the plastic. He loathed being dependent on it. Harry lip curled a little, as if to snarl – though no sound escaped his lips – in disgust at the sight of it.

Bog'ma called it gillyweed. It was supposed to be a plant for all it looked like slimy grey-green rat-tails. Once you swallowed it whole and the taste of rubber faded (it was better to do that, then chew), his fingers and toes would be webbed and he would grow gills at the side of his neck and ears. It didn't matter if Harry couldn't swim then, he'd survive underwater for as long as gillyweed didn't ware off.

Harry carefully didn't pay much attention to what he was putting into his mouth (if he did, he wouldn't want to all the more) and tossed his head back, swallowing visibly. Quickly he took a step into the water, and opened his eyes. He didn't gag or choke on the water as he still half expected to do every time he did this. The gills were already working to take oxygen from the water.

Quickly, he kicked his feet, keenly aware that he had already wasted too much time. His mind raced with what he knew about Sammael. Surely, there were at least two now – of that, he had seen proof of for himself. They had chosen the underground darkness, and subterranean water; it was warm down here.

Harry smiled then and it wasn't a pleasant smile. For if he followed the nature of Sammael it meant – as with most demons – light and _fire_ would be most effective.

Harry didn't have much time to dwell on his leap in logic, or have a second backup plan. Or to take into consideration that he was _underwater_ and planned to _burn something_ while it was swimming at him, likely trying to eat his face and aiming to rearrange his intestines.

For any other wizard, this would amount to suicide – even with magic – but life among the trolls (and with Tom Riddle in his head) had amounted to the chilling philosophy that if it killed him, he probably deserved it.

In that was Harry's greatest strength – and weakness; he wouldn't take in the fact that he could be killed. Certainly in the past he had been injured, yet always survived. Wizards were, after all, long lived and harder to kill. No one knew just how hard, not even Harry who tested those limits. Harry didn't rely on his magic; that was wise, as his magic was as whimsical and unreliable as nature itself, turning a fine day into a flood. What he did rely on was his survival instincts.

Which were screaming at him to flee, even before he laid eyes on the golden marble-sized spheres that were Sammael's eggs in the sewers warm, dim water. Harry narrowed his eyes on them, unaware of the flare of green as the thought crept into his mind, trickling to his magic – _burn within_.

Another smile, this time more sinister, crept over his features even as those eggs began to simmer and boil from within before his eyes. Confidence that _he could do this_ to even Sammael itself, full grown, filled him.

It was fleeting.

Harry hadn't thought that Sammael, in any incarnation, would be maternal.

Demons, after all, rarely were.

As his instincts screamed that he turn around, he did. Then, as so rarely done, looked upward in time to see Sammael diving down upon him, jaws agape and teeth boldly visible in the dim waters.

Harry, feeling suddenly clumsy in the water, managed to turn out of the way. It wasn't enough. Sammael's claws tore into his arm, bleeding him, even as Harry narrowly escaped. Water vibrated with a growling snarl of suppressed fury, for all Sammael clung to now would be revenge; behind its frill, tentacles-whiskers slithered furiously.

Sammael came at him again, having learned how awkwardly Harry moved underwater, determined now to get a hold on him. With arms flung forward, and claws reaching, the finger-digits with deadly claws curled to grip onto him. It did not bode well, lingering on what Sammael might do to him if the hell hound managed to grab hold.

Harry heard only his blood behind his ears. It was only later that he managed to put together what exactly happened.

From behind, a hand grabbed his injured arm. Struggling and crying out did him no good, and he was dragged between two chunks of an arch that had caved it. It was a narrow opening. Harry knew, vaguely, that he was being saved even though he saw his own blood in the water and was weak by pain. Harry hadn't known he was injured so badly.

A face, unrecognizable in his pained haze, peered down at him. Fragmented, the memory in the museum rolled over him like a summer thunderstorm…unstoppable, exhausting, merciless – _needful_.

( _A…being that he, even as a troll and wizard, had never seen the likes of. He wondered what his neighbors would think, or tell him. Harry studied the blue skinned one, as he knelt by a sword_ _,_ _studied it in turn. Black eyes_ – _wider then human, though eerily like a shark-gaze_ – _seemed to see things that were not here now, but had been. Harry felt a creeping sensation along his fur, as if a spider were creeping up along him unreachable. He brushed it aside, careless, watching as the blue-hued being jerked in reaction as if he had been struck._ )

This was that same blue hued, shark-eyed, being – close up.

_"I am Abe. Are you…?"_

Then there was only the pain, and muddy grey edges became sharper blackness.


	6. Swimming With Swamp Thing

His skin was slick with the wetness. It warmed him even as he felt lost to it, and Harry… well, Harry didn't _want_ to know if it was blood (his?) though it was as warm as he was, and it surrounded him from his toe to his lips. He felt as if he could not get away from the wet-warmness of it, even if he tried in his half-waking pain. So he kept his eyes closed, and the burry haze cleared; Harry had never been one to wake slowly.

" _You waken? This is a relief, I must say_." Harry opened his green eyes to see shark-black ones looking sympathetically back at him. Harry realized then that he was underwater and still _breathing_ it. He wasn't sure how long he had been 'out of it', but, however long it _had_ been, his body was still under the sway of the gillyweed. Harry judged it had not been too long.

Long enough, though, for everything to have changed. When he 'breathed,' he would have been fool to think he was still the dirty subterranean sewer water. It was pure, clean – though clean in a way that could only be manufactured by humans from the upper world. Harry felt fear push at his gut, but stayed still, hovering motionless in the glass pool as the other swam about him curiously. There was something playful in the others movements. That, more than the kind-sounding voice that echoed between his ears, reassured Harry.

" _You are safe here, and I…I must thank you_ _. Y_ _ou may not have known I was there_ _,_ _but you nonetheless saved me from ending up in the poorer condition for meeting that cursed creature, Sammael_." Harry could not help but snort his amusement, choking it down. He hadn't done what he had for this _other_ , yet it would be inconceivable to begin to explain that the origin of all this had started when he had realized there was something _wrong_ about Sammael, and Harry _would_ still see it put to rights. _And_ settle the matter of the cursed-wizard Rasputin and the Ogdru Jahad, somehow.

" _I am, as I said before_ – _though it was a sadly hasty and interrupted beginning for an introduction_ – _Abe, and you are_ …?" Pressed the blue-hued swimmer, who – Harry knew and observed – was watching him carefully for reactions to his mind-spoken words, waiting for a response that was not physical.

" _I am called Harry; I thank you for your…hospitality. Now, let me out of your tank. It will become my tomb_." Harry returned, aware he was being rude, but unable to help himself. He was, after all, not exactly _sure_ how much time he had until the gillyweed wore itself off, but sensing it was not long at all. That was worth a bit more panicking over, and then a little rudeness could be forgiven.

" _Surely not, I assure you, you would not survive outside here; you are even less suited to the air-world then I_." There was sympathy, but an edge of wary care that was taken with those words. Certainly, Harry thought, Abe had assumed he would be somehow more reasonable. Harry was not a creature of reason or logic, which was just as well given how little such things seemed to be taken as truth in regard to him.

" _Let me out, this isn't my proper form, you must listen to me - I ate gillyweed – do you understand? It will_ _wear_ _off, soon – I am lucky I did not drown while I was unaware. You must let me out_!" Harry felt then the tingle in his palms that he had long ago come to associate with gillyweed's effects leaving him. First his webbed toes and feet would go, and then… well, he wouldn't be able to _breathe_. That fact was becoming clear enough. Harry found himself kicking franticly at the glass that looked as if it opened up to a library,and above seemed to be nothing but white paint and metal edges. Harry had long ago learned that in water, he had less depth-perception then he did out of it.

Abe took his web-less hand, and pulled him upward. Harry was quickly tiring, hurt as he was with his arm, and trying to remember that he would soon need to hold his breath but not knowing when he should start. Abe took hold of a metal wheel and turned it. It flipped open, upward and Harry swam for the small opening. Gasping and shaking, Harry found himself suddenly able to breathe. Abe had just saved his life, of that much, Harry knew without a doubt.

"Thank you," Harry muttered, knowing Abe would hear if not the words – sounds traveled well in water – then by listening within his mind.

" _You are more then welcome, Harry._ _What a fascinating specimen you are_." Harry could not help a soft laugh at the open curiosity Abe held of him. Abe was so open to what he felt, and those feeling fell over Harry's mind like a soothing summer rain. It was rare for anyone to have such openness, of that much, Harry was aware of.

"Not as special as all that, really, Abe …where am I?" Harry looked around him self. It was an empty room, padded with metal and cold. There was something about it that Harry did not trust. He did not like that Abe would be kept here, for surely, Abe was being kept – even if he knew and acknowledged that, or no. There was a tank near at hand with tubes that were filled with water and the tank within the backpack – well, Harry was sure it was likewise filled with oxygen rich water, just for Abe. There were no corners in the oval room, but there was a door toward the narrower end. Harry pulled himself the rest of the way out of Abe's tank, still tense with nerves and shaking with the adrenaline of a near drowning.

" _This is the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense,_ B.P.R.D _for short. This is where I, and others like me, call home. It is a secret of the American government_." Harry tried not to show too much surprise as he heard Abe tell him this. The Troll Bridge, of course, moved around beneath the ground and cities mortal man laid claim to. The Gate, Harry well knew, took you to where you needed to go in the upper world. Harry had not much thought at the distance that his recent trips might take him from his homeland of Europe. Still, that was what made the Troll Bridge the perfect place for him – it moved itself, always in a half-hiding.

It didn't, Harry knew, _matter_ where he was on the surface world; so long as Harry returned to the underground, he could find his way back to the Gate and his neighbors beneath Troll Bridge.

"And you… _like_ it here?" Harry asked, unable to hide his doubt. The place looked like a _cage_. Harry had seen enough of those, after all, to know.

" _Well, no, but it is a safe place, a refuge, and there are so few of those offered to…our kind_." Abe allowed, and Harry kept himself from looking down into the sub-tight hole that opened up to the tank Abe watched him from. It was a little eerie to hear his voice within his mind, and still know that Abe was watching Harry from beneath the water.

"I'll keep that in mind. I wouldn't want it, refuge or no; it's a cage. I know better places to hide-away within." Harry didn't – yet – wish to offer to take Abe with him. He didn't know this place – how hard escape would be – and though Abe knew it better then he, Abe obviously found his accommodations suiting, fish-tank or not.

" _Intriguing…_ " Abe murmured, and for the first time, Harry wondered just how much of his thoughts Abe could interpret. His magic was supposed to protect his mind, but it didn't always do so. Harry hoped his trust in Abe (for if he couldn't trust someone who he had "accidently" saved and been saved by in turn, who could he trust here after all?) wasn't about to proof displaced.

"Well, well, look at this, sleeping beauty woke up! And no longer part-fish, Abe must be so very disappointed. Unless he got a kiss?" Harry didn't jerk in surprise even as the outer door was opened by man in a suit. Harry, seeing him, inhaled sharply through his nose. _A muggle._ Harry didn't know admittedly very much at all about governments, but if they'd stumbled onto Harry and planned to keep him… well, magic would seek him out, naturally, and their secret here wouldn't remain so for very long to those who'd come hunting for Harry.

"You'll want to let me go." Harry told him, point-blank, because he wasn't about to _stay_ if he could help it. Though, of course, it was never very easy to convince detainers they wanted to let "prey" just go free.

"Ah, you're British. I had wondered where you'd crawled out from. And why would we want to let _you_ – someone very likely dangerous to the unknowing fair citizens of this county, a possible shape shifter, no less! – out of our sight…?" The drawled words grated on Harry's nerves, and he felt his magic twang in sympathy and forced himself to calm. Nails bit into the bare skin of his palm.

"I've done nothing wrong." It was softly worded, but true. He hadn't done anything wrong that _they_ would know of.

"Hm, that is true enough so far as we know at the moment. But, let me tell you what we _do_ know, as it's all quite fascinating – your name is Harry James Potter. At age eleven you started to disappear regularly during the school year, only to come back every summer holiday until you were thirteen. Your guardians at that time, a Vernon Dursley and Petunia Evans-Dursley, claimed you to be enrolled into the private school, called St _._ Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. A peek in their records indicated you've never set foot in the building. You supposedly _died_ later that same year as you have a lovely tombstone in Godric's Hollow alongside your murdered parents stating it to be so. Yet, Mr. Potter, here you stand now, _alive_ , nearly ten years later." With every word spoken, Harry became tenser as the man came further into the room, nearing him – goading him. As his arms finally crossed over a broad suiting chest, the elder sneered down at Harry.

"So, forgive me, there must have been some _mistake_ after all. Nothing _suspicious_ about you in the least, is there?" Harry remained sitting on the metal floor, very still, as he considered his options. He didn't know where he was so apparition would be an incredibly _stupid_ thing to do, and any sort of magic would draw unwanted attention. No matter how tempting.

"That's enough of that, Manning. Run along." An elderly man with a kind voice, though also in a suit that seemed less for business and more for day-to-day use, stepped in to intervene. The other man quickly stepped away from Harry as if he hadn't intended to be caught interrogating him. Harry watched in bemusement as Manning turned a narrow-eyed look on Harry. He shook his head, unable to leave without having something like a final word.

"Yes, Professor Bruttenholm. Be careful of him, sir." Professor Bruttenholm watched the younger man go without a word, only then turning to Harry with something like a fatherly-smile and held out his hand to help Harry stand. Harry got to his feet without his assistance, acting as if he had thought the man had wanted to shake his hand. Professor Bruttenholm went along with that, though there was a steely glint in his eyes that Harry thought to mean that Bruttenholm hadn't, after all, been fooled.

"Don't pay too much mind to him, he isn't a trusting fellow, and – I imagine – all this worries at him endlessly. I assure you Mr. Potter, you are a guest here until at such a time we deem you safe to release into the public. It should only take a few days of observation." Professor Bruttenholm guided him away from the egg-like metal chamber. Harry noticed as he turned back to look that there was no door handle or visible way in.

"Abe chooses who comes and goes into his rooms, I dare say he thought that Manning would be more understanding of your situation than he proved himself to be. Bless him. Abe is a trusting soul, if innocent and knowing in strange turns." Bruttenholm gave enough a pause in a silence between them that Harry realized he was supposed to – or was being encouraged – to speak his mind. He did, though only using a few words.

"I've known stranger sorts." Harry let a small strange half-smile cross over his lips, and caught Bruttenholm glancing to him. There was something like pity in his eyes.

"Somehow, Mr. Potter, I do not doubt that for truth when it concerns you. It worries me, you see, I think myself very well informed to what things are going on within this world, and, truly, when we bring our agents and paranormal researchers within the fold of the B.P.R.D. for the very first time, Abe is our preferred envoy. There is nothing in the world quite like him." There was a strange sort of sympathy in the way that Bruttenholm spoke about Abe, and Harry remembered enough about people to know that they did not like being alone. And, from Bruttenholm's perspective, Abe very much was alone in the world. Harry knew otherwise.

"You'd be surprised." Harry couldn't keep the taste of irony from slipping into his tone and off his tongue. Harry would never betray the location of the Gate to Troll Bridge, any more then he would tell them where to find Diagon Alley. Though telling them where to find wizards and witches might be the more tempting option.

"Yes, I do admit, I very well might be. Let me tell you, Mr. Potter, what I think you are. You are someone I have only before dared prayed unvoiced to meet face-to-face. You were born human, of course. But, yet, you were also born as one of _them_ ; a wizard, we would say. Among these paranormal creatures, well, you are both feared and terribly revered. They warned us we should let you go – because a wizard, Mr. Potter, isn't someone that we could tame or lure into becoming an 'Enhanced Talent' agent, as Manning dearly wants of you." Bruttenholm allowed, and Harry couldn't help but be a little impressed by them, these muggles. They were doing what they could to protect the people who didn't suspect and were blind and helpless to what stirred in the dark using what resources were available to them. It was a little stupid, yes, but braver then most "monsters" would have given credit to a normal human for being.

"You've wise friends, then." Harry said, knowing that he was supposed to say something. He still wasn't sure what they wanted of him. Was it to become an agent? It depended on how much they _did know_ , and how much they _thought_ they knew. If the B.P.R.D. could, indeed, get him closer to the goal of laying Sammael to rest in Hell; or of finding Grigori Efimovich Rasputin and Ogdru Jahad… well, Harry just might decide to stick around. Such things couldn't be helped, really. Harry had vowed to help those he could in the killing of Grigori Efimovich Rasputin; but Ogdru Jahad was personal.

"They say you are well known and liked among them, Mr. Potter. Almost kin to them – someone to be protected, _trusted_ , even. I can not tell you how rare it is; trust among them is a flimsy thing. It is very strange for us to be told this, you must understand, because we know of one other like you in your _magical_ – shall we say – nature?" Bruttenholm was testing him that much Harry understood. He wasn't being devious about it, and Harry could respect that. They also, he knew, needed to have an _idea_ of just how much he knew. It was a round-about way of earning their trust. Harry needed to have that if he were ever to be free of them.

"You speak of Grigori Efimovich Rasputin; if you were indeed hunting Sammael in the sewers?" Harry knew it wasn't nice to tease, but found he couldn't truly help himself. It'd been a long time since he really had the upper hand in anything.

"Like you?" Bruttenholm allowed, and Harry said nothing, though he did nod in acceptance of the truth behind the facts that Bruttenholm has fitted together. Harry was really rather impressed with him, though he'd never say so. A troll would find it rude. Harry thought that, for the first time in a very long time, Dung might have been right in saying that Harry was spending too much time underground.

"Well, isn't that a _relief_. We're all on the same side, huh?" Harry went very still, and though he stood in the same frozen position, he looked because he couldn't help but _not_ look. He tilted his head to the side to be sure of what he saw. It didn't waver, or flicker in and out of sight as an illusion might. Some creatures made themselves to be more than what they are.

Others, less. Such as this case.

Harry knew now, that things might go very badly, very quickly. Harry was a moment away from snapping the small control he's managed to gain upon his magic, of letting it fill him like a dull roar. Harry's magic would act something like a calling card, and everyone he knew if they meant him harm or were friend would come running to find him. He'd go insane with it – might die for this warning. And find not this creature at all.

"This, Harry, is my son, Hellboy." Harry didn't let himself laugh as mania tickled against his throat. Of all the ways he thought he might die – well, never like this – then he _hears_ Bruttenholm speaking and his mind begins to feel as if it is unraveling in a mix of sickening shock and a jolt of horror, overlaid with a bit of hysteria. All of it, he very carefully did not show.

Bruttenholm was fond of it, and smiled as a father might at a favored – though only sometimes delinquent – son. He did not yet suspect that Harry recognized "Hellboy" (would be fool, not to) and isn't taking the physical representation of the _end of the world_ nearly so calmly.

"That is Anung Un Rama, the Beast of the Apocalypse." Harry said so very carefully, very softly, as if they didn't – _couldn't possibly_ – know this and stand about so calmly. Surely they were not so very _stupid_ – or suicidal. Or both. They both heard him, and weren't so stupid not to hear the warning, the danger. Harry felt bristling at his fingertips as magic tugged at him to use it.

"Hey, there's no need for name callin'." There was something very like _hurt_ in that gravely voice; those eyes – human like – were narrowed in anger, as if this was some game that Harry wouldn't play along with. Harry was still watching it, ready to rip into his magic and burn it like a roaring storm; but he quivered, wavered with Bruttenholm (who he trusted, who he likes!) standing almost protectively in front of it – _Hellboy_! – as if _Harry_ was the one who might end his world.

"Please, Harry, listen to me? Do not do anything rash. He's on _our side_ , Harry. His ties to Hell were severed more then fifty years ago. I raised him since his infancy. He is a son to me." He was pleading. Harry felt as if his skin was smoldering. He could not keep a grip on his magic and felt as if he was about to _use it_ and _not_ use it for very long. It was a danger to do so, more so than Anung Un Rama seemed. So he did something he prayed he wouldn't live to regret. He trusts Bruttenholm and half staggering, falling to the floor as he _let it go_. He let his magic settle firmly back under his skin where it was content and most comfortable. His magic, as if it was a sentient entity, did not like him awaking it so rudely.

Harry found his vision fading, blurring the image of Bruttenholm and _his son,_ the creature Anung Un Rama, called Hellboy in this place, by these people. If Harry had the strength to, he would have protested Hellboy settling on his hunches to kneel down next to Harry. Dazed as he was, Harry said not a word.

"Sammael did a number on him, father. Didn't you notice the blood on his robe sleeve?" His robes were black, Harry wanted to protest, _people_ weren't supposed to notice when he was hurt and bloodied; but monsters would _know_ , would smell it. Hellboy reached for Harry, dragging him into its arms, lifting him as easily as if he were some cotton-crafted doll. Harry found himself unable to say anything, feeling his limbs like heavy weights, his mind oddly detached from the feeling of flame-warm skin against his chilled wet wool and cloth. Such warmth pulled him. Disjointed as his mind was; he tried to stay aware and awake.

"No. He gave no sign of it; I thought he would be able to heal, just as you do." Bruttenholm said in a puzzled tone, as if he did not quite know what to do. It was true enough that if a normal person (not a witch, or wizard) had gone through what Harry just had, they would be unquestionably dead. But Harry knew he wasn't dead and trying to rip himself to pieces with magic hadn't helped him heal up any.

"Too human for that, I guess. I wonder what else he might know of …what, _who_ , I am." There was wariness there, as if Hellboy wanted to know, if only to avoid it. Harry didn't particularly blame him on that score. He was rather glad for it, in fact.

"Hellboy, whatever else you might be, you are _my son_ and loved." Bruttenholm reassured in soft, almost soothing, words.

"I know, father." Hellboy sounded firm of that, as if he couldn't doubt Bruttenholm, would not believe him capable of such deceit. Harry wondered, in awe, of such open trust between what was human and what was not; even as he slipped beneath the waking world, dragged under and unable to protest this with his energy so recklessly spent.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the way I figure it, this isn't really going to be the sort of story that one follows until there is a clear resolution. Nope, this one is more of a "glimpse" into a bunch of random and coincidental meetings and short glimpses at a idea that turns into the sort of story where you think you know where the beginning was, but if you look a little deeper, you start to wonder if there ever was a beginning – or if there will ever be a real end. Or at least that is my sort-of vague impression. I just woke up.
> 
> Also, I know how rare calico/ tortoiseshell males are; odds being 3000:1 and those males usually being sterile. Though, I think calico-tabby males are slightly less rare…
> 
> Just remember, doves, no such thing as coincidence.


End file.
